


Carrying On

by vandevere



Category: Law & Order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-05-01 08:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14516265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vandevere/pseuds/vandevere
Summary: Companion piece to "Time Like a Wheel".  What really happened





	1. Chapter 1

Mickey Scott had been executed today, early in the morning. Now, it was night, around 9 PM, and Lennie Briscoe was in the last place he expected to be. He was in a bar, and drinking with the last person he expected to see in a bar.

Jack McCoy.

Lennie was fighting temptation tonight, fighting it with a passion. His jumbled feelings about the execution, the smell of scotch and beer heavy in the air, and his argument with his daughter; all of that together made for a very powerful trigger, and suddenly, Briscoe wanted a drink, a  _real_  drink, with all the good stuff, the booze and all.

_You_ _**are** _ _better when they're already dead…_

Cathy's parting comment certainly didn't help; and Briscoe might have fallen to the allure, and the _need…_

But Jack McCoy worried the hell out of him. He'd never seen McCoy outside of a work environment before, had never seen him in a relaxed social setting before, and certainly had never seen him drunk like this…

Although Briscoe had to admit, it was sort of hard to tell. McCoy wasn't staggering, or slurring his words. But, Briscoe knew.

Jack McCoy was drunk. He was utterly plowed. He was also rather pointedly looking at his watch.

_Waiting on his girl to come and pick him up…_

One scotch later, McCoy looked at his watch again, then showed it to Briscoe.

"I guess she's not coming," Briscoe sighed.

McCoy snorted, then hauled himself to his feet, only wobbling just a little.

"Hold on!" Briscoe laid a hand on McCoy's shoulder, just in case he needed steadying. "Maybe I should see you home."

McCoy shrugged his hand off, muttered something about it not being illegal to hire a cab while intoxicated, turned to leave, then paused, and looked back, a darkly bitter smile gracing his features.

"The hell with her…" he said softly before he headed outside.

Which left Lennie with two choices.

Either stay put, and enjoy Jack's new drinking buddies, Mike, and the other two guys, with all the triggering that would come with it…

Or step outside, and see to it that the intoxicated Executive Assistant DA made it to that cab.

Cursing softly, Briscoe stood, and made to leave.

"Hey!" Mike complained. "You haven't finished your Club Soda. Maybe something stronger?"

"Thanks, "Briscoe gritted his teeth, and wished this sudden, bone-deep craving would just…go away. "I want to make sure my friend gets home safely. Raincheck?"

"Jack's a big boy," Mike said. "Doesn't look like he needs someone to hold his hand walking home."

"Probably not," Briscoe agreed. "But, I'd just like to be sure…"

_Today's been crazy for all of us. Jack McCoy's probably been feeling that too…_

The detective pulled on his overcoat, made his farewells, and then turned to leave.

There was the sudden sound of squealing tires outside, cries, shouts, screams, and more screeching tires.

Briscoe ran outside, looked around. There was a clot of people standing around something on the sidewalk, one of them on his cell phone.

"What happened?" he demanded, showing his Police ID as he ran up.

"This c-car went r-right off the sidewalk," a young woman was trembling. "It hit this guy as he was waiting for a cab, went right over him like he wasn't even there, then went back on the road and drove off like nothing happened."

"Let me through…" Briscoe gently elbowed his way through the small group of…witnesses…a deep pit opening up in his stomach. He already sort of knew what he was going to find, so it was no real surprise.

_I should have walked him out, made damn sure he got into a cab…_

Jack McCoy…

"Someone call 911!" he ordered.

"Already did," One of the young men said. "Is he dead?"

Briscoe knelt by the body.

McCoy's body was twitching feebly, arms and legs in spasm, and there was so much blood, trickling from his nose, mouth, and his ears.

_Oh…god…oh god…Don't die, Jack. Please, don't die…_

Briscoe did the only thing he could think to do. He took off his overcoat, and draped it gently over the other man, hoping against hope, that the extra warmth would help a little.

He could hear the sirens in the distance, coming closer, getting louder. Then, they were here; the ambulance, the paramedics, a fire truck-just in case-and two police cruisers.

And,  _talk about perfect timing,_ there was Claire Kincaid, parking her car at the curb, just a few feet away, arriving just in time to see… _this._

_She's his girlfriend?_

…..

Sometimes, Claire Kincaid just wanted to kill Jack McCoy.

There she was, having a wonderful late night Chinese feast with Lieutenant Anita Van Buren, when Jack McCoy called, clearly expecting her to drop everything and come pick him up right away.

She loved Jack McCoy. She knew that. But right now, right this instant, she would have gladly throttled him.

So, she drove off to this bar, expecting to find her…sometimes very irritating lover not-so-patiently waiting for her.

There were police cruisers, a fire truck, a paramedic truck, and an ambulance, all with lights whirling; and police taking statements from terrified witnesses.

_What happened?_ Kincaid got out of her parked car, looked around.

Detective Lennie Briscoe was there too, coatless, standing by the gaggle of EMTs as they worked on a…victim?

Lennie looked grim. Then, he looked up and saw her, and she saw…realization in his eyes…and grief.

The EMTs working on the victim, still covered by…Lennie's coat.

"Oh…god no!" she heard herself whimper as she ran up, Lennie moving to intercept.

"No, Counselor," Briscoe's deep gravelly voice anchoring her. "There's nothing you can do. He's alive. They're going to take him to Manhattan General."

…..

_Schiff Residence 11 PM_

Adam Schiff, and his beloved Ruth, preparing for bed. The phone rang, and Ruth, ever polite, picked it up.

"Schiff residence, Mrs. Schiff speaking. Miss Kincaid? Yes. He's right here. Hang on…"

She held the phone out to Adam.

"It's Miss Kincaid," she explained. "She sounds upset."

"I'll take it," Schiff sighed as he took the phone. "Adam Schiff here. What's wrong, Claire?"

"It's…Jack!" Claire Kincaid didn't sound upset. She sounded absolutely terrified. "There was an accident. He was hit by a car!"

It felt so utterly non sequitur.

_Dogs get hit by cars, and rabbits and squirrels…_

He coughed slightly, clearing his throat, clearing his head.

"How?"

"Lennie said he was waiting for a cab when another car went off the road and rammed into him on the sidewalk."

"Okay…" Schiff sat on the edge of the bed, finally beginning to understand what the words,  _Jack was hit by a car_  meant. "Where is he?"

"They're taking him to Manhattan General," Kincaid's voice shook. "It's…bad, Adam."

"I'll be there." Schiff put the phone down, starting pulling his clothes back on.

"What happened?" Ruth asked.

"Jack was hit by a car..." He had prosecuted hit-and-run cases before, especially after MADD started.

_In a contest between a pedestrian and a car, the pedestrian always loses…_

…..

_Manhattan General 7 AM_

Claire Kincaid was beginning to feel more than just a little tired. But she didn't dare close her eyes.

"It's all right," she felt Adam Schiff's hand on her shoulder. "I'll wake you if they come with anything for us."

Lennie Briscoe was dozing, feet up on a chair he'd had the foresight to draw up.

Schiff led her to a chair in the Waiting Room, dragged up another chair for her feet.

When they had arrived, Jack McCoy had immediately been brought in for emergency cranial surgery.

_A skull fracture, pieces of broken bone embedded in his brain…_

A horrific injury, and even with a successful surgery, no guarantee of a complete recovery.

Kincaid let Schiff guide her to the chair. Then, as she sat down, a man, wearing surgical blues, walked up, and all thought of sleep left her mind.

"Hello," the man said, Texas-accented voice booming from his large, burly frame. "I'm Dr. Arthur Branch."

"Are you Jack's surgeon?" Kincaid hated the almost timid tone she heard in her voice.

"Yes, Ma'am," the big man nodded. "I take it you're Miss Claire Kincaid?"

"Yes,"

"Good. According to his info, Mr. McCoy named you his next-of-kin. The good news, he's alive."

"And…the bad news?"

"He's in a coma," Branch said. "For now, that's good. In, fact, if he weren't in a coma, we'd probably have to induce one. Mr. McCoy suffered a traumatic injury to the brain, among other things."

"Other things?" Schiff spoke up.

"Who's this?" Branch looked to Kincaid.

"Jack's boss," Kincaid said. "Mine too."

"All right…Mr. McCoy also suffered a broken collar-bone, and his right knee was shattered.  _Those_  can be easily dealt with; and other doctors  _will_ take care of them, in due course, when Mr. McCoy is stronger."

"How long before he wakes up?" Detective Lennie Briscoe had apparently been awaked by the doctor's arrival, had been listening quietly all along.

"And that's the Ten-Million-Dollar-Question," Dr. Arthur Branch nodded. "The answer is simple. We don't know. Could be tomorrow. Could be a year from tomorrow. Could be he never wakes up. We don't know, because there is so much about the brain that we don't know."

"Can I see him? Just for a minute?"

"Sorry…but no," Branch sighed. "He's hooked up to all sorts of machines right now. It wouldn't help him. And it wouldn't really help you either. If he survives the next few days, we'll see. But, for now, you people need to go home and get some rest yourselves. I'll call you if anything changes."

Branch nodded cordially to the trio, then headed back into ICU.

"There goes another Doctor God…" Lennie Briscoe muttered.

"I  _hate_  Doctor Gods…" Kincaid muttered back.

"Let's just hope  _this_  Doctor God performs a miracle, and keeps Jack alive." Adam Schiff said as he turned to Claire Kincaid. "Take the day, Miss Kincaid. I need you in my office, rested, and alert, tomorrow."

"Yes, Adam…" Right now, Claire Kincaid felt very small, very uncertain. But there was work to do in the DA's Office, and Jack McCoy wouldn't be around to do it for a while.

_If ever…_

So, Claire Kincaid was going to have to step up to the plate, and do it herself.


	2. Chapter 2

_27_ _th_ _Precinct_

Guilt, and worry, crowded Detective Rey Curtis' soul this morning. Guilt, for what he had done the day before-with a complete stranger, no less-and worry over Lennie Briscoe.

He had gone to Lennie's apartment late last night. Curtis didn't know why, really; except that he needed  _someone_ to confess his sin to, and Lennie Briscoe made as good a Confessor as anyone else Curtis knew.

But Lennie Briscoe had never come home that night.

_If he isn't at the police station, I'll make a Missing Persons call…_

Fortunately, Lennie Briscoe  _was_  at the 27th. But he looked like hell, like he hadn't slept at all last night. Come to think of it, everyone here, all the other cops and detectives, from Lieutenant Anita Van Buren down to the lowliest newbie, looked upset.

_Something happened,_ Curtis realized.  _Something…bad._

Filled with this sense of foreboding, he walked into the Squad Room.

Lieutenant Anita Van Buren was almost…hovering over Lennie Briscoe.

_As if he might break any minute…_

"Lennie…" the Lieutenant spoke softly. "Why don't you take the day? The Acting Executive Assistant DA will want us all at our best and brightest as we pursue this case."

"Wait… _what?_ " Curtis stood there, sudden ice chilling his veins. "The  _Acting_  Executive Assistant DA?"

"You haven't heard?" Van Buren's eyes regarded him.

Unease creeping up his spine, Curtis shook his head.

"No. What happened?"

"Jack McCoy was hit by a hit-and-run driver last night," Briscoe spoke up, a ragged tone in his voice. "I was practically right there when it happened!"

_Oh…my God…_

Abruptly, all of what he had done with that college girl the day before, his  _sin,_ fled from his mind.

"Is he…Is he…" Curtis couldn't actually bring himself to ask the question.

_Is he dead?_

"Last we heard," Van Buren said. "Mr. McCoy is in a coma. We were told it's a severe cranial injury."

"Skull fracture?" Horror filled Curtis.

"Yeah…" Briscoe muttered. "They had to dig pieces of his skull out of his brain…"

Van Buren sighed.

"We'll keep everyone up to date on Mr. McCoy's condition," she said. Then, she looked to everyone under her command, all gathered together. "Drop all of your old cases, people. Mr. McCoy is one of our  _own_ , and finding the bastard who did this to him is our first,  _and only_ , priority. Now…get to work."

As everyone dispersed, she motioned to Curtis.

"Take Lennie home, Rey" she ordered. "He's been up all night over this."

"Yes, LT," Curtis nodded, turned back to Briscoe. "Let's get you home…

…..

_1 Hogan Place_

It was the day after that horrific accident.

_Two days after Mickey Scott's execution…_

Adam Schiff had appointed Claire Kincaid Acting Executive Assistant immediately after coming back from the hospital.

"You're ready, Claire," he had said firmly. "And I think Jack would agree."

Now, she was talking to her new Second Chair. She'd heard of Jamie Ross before.

_A Defense Attorney switching sides to play for the Offense…_

That sort of thing didn't happen every day.

But Ross' ex had been Neil Gorton, and their marriage had ended in divorce.

Adam had specifically hired Ross to be Kincaid's Second Chair.

_I like her, Miss Kincaid. You'll like her too…_

Claire Kincaid did like her.

"This hopefully will only be a temporary arrangement," she handed Ross a cup of Darjeeling. "But we have no idea how long this situation will last."

"I understand," Ross nodded. She hesitated. "How is he?"

"He's…alive."

Kincaid had managed to cajole the Chief Neurologist, Dr. Arthur Branch, into letting her peek at Jack McCoy for just a minute before she headed into work this morning.

It had been a profoundly dislocating experience.

His entire head had been enclosed in a veritable web of bandages, gauze, ventilator tubes, EEG leads, and tape. She could barely see anything of Jack McCoy under all of that.

_Mr. McCoy is nonresponsive right now, a deep coma,_ Branch had explained.  _Right now, that's a good thing. His brain was traumatically assaulted; and that causes swelling. It's to be hoped that brain function will return to normal once the swelling goes down…_

…..

Detective Lennie Briscoe was feeling a little better today. A little sleep had done wonders.

_Now,_ he was ready to do the hard work of following evidence trails in the hope one of them would lead to the driver who had done this thing.

Other cops had already sifted through witness reports, and a picture was slowly emerging.

_A dark Mercedes, either black, blue, or dark gray._

There was even a partial on the License plate, which would go a long way toward narrowing things down.

Now that Claire Kincaid was acting Executive Assistant DA, she had a Second Chair of her very own.

Briscoe liked Jamie Ross. She was honest, earnest, and willing to go that extra mile when it came to tracking down leads.

"Thanks to the DA's Office, we've narrowed it down to three Mercedes in the Manhattan area," Van Buren laid the sheet in front of Briscoe. "If you and Detective Curtis could get on this…"

"Yeah…" Briscoe looked down at the list. Just three names were on that list.

_Elizabeth Matuzak_

_Cliff David_

_Bernard Dressler_

Lennie Briscoe looked down at the three names. One of these three was the one who had gone off the road, run Jack McCoy down into the ground, and then driven off like nothing had happened.

_We've almost got the bastard…_


	3. Chapter 3

_Manhattan General_

Jamie Ross made her way to the hospital's  _ICU_. Claire Kincaid would be there, sitting next to one of the curtained-off beds.

The sound here was oppressive, soft beeps of heart monitors interspersed among the sighing sounds of ventilators.

"How is he?" Jamie Ross had seen Jack McCoy once, just a few weeks before the accident. He had swept past her, with barely a glance, briefcase in hand as he moved on to his next case.

Tall, with a shock of unruly black hair, all in all, a very attractive man.

Ross had heard of McCoy's history with his assistants, was prepared to dismiss it as rumor. But with Kincaid sitting here, as if she was keeping watch over him…

Maybe the rumors were true after all…

With the sound of the heart monitor and the ventilator dominating everything, Ross looked down at McCoy.

The body in the bed looked frail, virtually swathed, head to foot, in tubes and tape.

Jamie Ross couldn't see anything of Jack McCoy's face.

Claire Kincaid had sighed at Ross' question, gently caressing McCoy's right hand.

"They had to take Jack back into surgery yesterday," she said. "They discovered a brain-bleed. If there are no other bleeds in the next three days, Dr. Branch says he'll be able to repair Jack's skull."

Again, she sighed.

"He'll have metal plates in his skull, Jamie…"

"It's better than being dead," Ross put a matter-of-fact tone into her voice. "The detectives have turned up three names in connection with the car that hit him."

"Let me see," Kincaid held out her hand.

"Elizabeth Matuzak, Cliff David, and Bernard Dressler…" she read from the list. "What do we know about them?"

"All three are fabulously rich," Ross went over what they had learned. "Matuzak is over ninety, hasn't left her penthouse in over two years. Cliff David died three days before the accident, a sudden heart attack. Both of their cars have been looked at. David's Mercedes has no marks, and Matuzak's car… _CSU_  checked the engine. It hasn't been driven in years. Bernard Dressler is the youngest of the three, and he has a reputation for wild behavior."

"So…" Still caressing Jack McCoy's right hand. "What about Dressler's car?"

"It's…gone missing," Ross smiled knowingly. "Stolen…he says. He says he got a new one."

"All right…" Claire Kincaid smiled grimly, hand still caressing McCoy's hand. "Track that missing car down. Jack was hit pretty hard. Maybe the bumper will have something to say on the matter."

...

Claire Kincaid was facing all sorts of dilemmas…

Dilemmas concerning Jack McCoy's medical care, and the costs thereof. Dilemmas as to what to do about his apartment and belongings. If he opened his eyes today, even by the most optimistic outlook, Jack McCoy would be looking at months-if not years-of intensive physical rehabilitation therapy.

_With yet more horrendous costs attached…_

Traumatic brain injuries took a long time to heal.

Kincaid had looked at Jack McCoy's medical insurance policies. His insurance policies were a little more expensive than the average. But Jack was a dedicated motorcycle rider, had ridden bikes since he was in his teens.

She had spoken to Dr. Arthur Branch about this just the other day.

"Miss Kincaid," Branch had said. "You may want to start figuring out how to deal with the situation. It looks like Mr. McCoy isn't going to come out of that coma any time soon, and his Medical Insurance won't last more than a couple of years. After that, it's gonna get bleak."

Adam Schiff had been furious over the accident. He had wanted to put Dressler behind bars for as long as possible, as a deterrent to future hit-and-run drivers.

But Dressler had apparently been drunk at the time. So drunk that he claimed not to remember the incident at all, and the evidence, from an airline stewardess seemed to back that up.

_He wasn't just drunk. He was_ _**toxic** _ _drunk…_

In the end, Kincaid had decided to bring Bernard Dressler, and his attorney, Richard Billings, to the hospital, so he could  _see_  Jack McCoy, see what he had done.

Bernard Dressler stared at the patient in horror as Claire Kincaid spoke.

"The witnesses said you just drove him down. They said he went right under your wheels."

Dressler trembled.

"I didn't mean to," he whispered. "I was so drunk. I don't even remember it!"

"What are you looking for?" Billings asked.

"I'll let him take DUI, under a few certain conditions," Kincaid looked to Dressler. "I'm told he has Licenses to drive in California, Utah, and Connecticut, as well as New York. He surrenders  _all_  of his licenses. Permanently. He never drives a car again for the rest of his life. And he submits to a mandatory three years of Alcohol Addiction therapy at Bellevue."

She paused, drew in a breath, and named her final condition.

"Lastly, Mr. McCoy is in a deep coma. The doctors say he's nonresponsive, and very likely to stay that way. His medical insurance will run out in less than two years. After that…"

She didn't want to finish. She had visited such a facility when it was becoming apparent Jack wasn't going to wake up any time soon. She'd come away shuddering.

_There's no way in heaven, earth, or_ _ **hell**_ _I'm going to subject Jack to_ _ **that**_ …

Again, she took a breath, and let it out.

"After that…it gets bad. I want you to assume the costs for his care. It could be less than a year, or it could be for the rest of his life, however long that proves to be. You will pay for  _all_ of his medical needs, up to and including private facilities and twenty-four-hour care."

Billings looked to Dressler, and Dressler nodded.

"I can do that…" he muttered.

And Claire Kincaid, having already seen Dressler's financials, could only agree.

Dressler was one of the  _few_ …

He wasn't merely one of the fabled One Percent. He was one of the true financial elite, the top one percent of the top one percent.

Bernard Dressler was one of the wealthiest men on the planet. He could afford to pay for Jack McCoy's medical care without even raising a sweat.

"We can make all of the arrangements tomorrow?" Billings asked.

"Yes," Kincaid agreed.

Relief poured through Claire Kincaid's veins. She had done everything she could, to meet both the demands of Justice, and also to provide for Jack McCoy, who was in no condition to provide, or even speak, for himself.

_Atonement is made, and Jack McCoy won't be sent to_ _**that** _ _place. I've done all right…_

She forgot, however, to bring Judge Gary Feldman into her calculations…


	4. Chapter 4

"I refuse to accept the defendant's Plea," Judge Gary Feldman sat in his Judge's Seat, clad in the authority of the Judge's Black Robe, gavel in hand. "Drunk Driving is a plague in America, and I intend to see to it that only the most severe penalties are implemented. The charge here will be Attempted Murder."

Claire Kincaid stood there, stunned. It had never occurred to her that Feldman would not honor the plea deal.

"It was an  _accident_ , Your Honor," Richard Billings spoke up. "And the evidence supports my Client's claims that he was so drunk that he doesn't even remember that night. Also, the penalties levied upon the Defendant are well within the standard."

"The… _standard?"_  Feldman scoffed. "The Executive Assistant DA lies in a deep coma from which he may never awaken; and should he die as a result of his injuries…"

There was an almost… _eager_ …glint in Feldman's eyes. It was almost as if he  _wanted_ Jack McCoy to die.

_So he can charge Dressler with murder._

"The People have accepted the Defendant's Plea," Claire Kincaid had finally collected her wits. "We are satisfied with the Plea arrangement."

_We…_

Jack McCoy had often used the Plural form of address _,_  when speaking for the People of the District of Manhattan.

_Almost the Royal We of Great Britain…_

"I'm sure you are," Feldman sneered, voice dripping with innuendo.

"Are you suggesting we did anything…improper?" Kincaid almost hoped Feldman would rise to the accusation. So she could take him to court over it.

But that wouldn't help Jack McCoy.

And, what if Feldman was able to produce public evidence of her…involvement…with Jack?

What if he was able to use that as in indictment of the DA's Office?

…..

_1 Hogan Place_

"I want to… _kill_  him!"

Claire Kincaid wasn't all that much of a drinker, especially when compared to Jack McCoy. But, right now…

She gladly knocked back the scotch Adam Schiff had poured for her, the burn of it working its way down her throat.

"Feldman wants to sentence him for Attempted Homicide," she snarled as she put the empty tumbler down. "Even though everyone with even an ounce of sense knows Dressler was so drunk he literally has no memory of what actually happened."

"Judge Gary Feldman is a self-righteous little twerp," Adam Schiff agreed as he took his seat at his desk.

"He's endangering the Plea Deal," Kincaid snapped. "I don't think he has the right to do that."

"He obviously thinks otherwise, Miss Kincaid."

"The Plea Deal Richard and I worked out…Adam…It's the  _right_  thing to do. Restitution and therapy, plus revocation of all driving privileges for life. Why is Feldman doing this?"

"Look at the calendar, Miss Kincaid," Schiff's voice gently chiding.

"Oh, yeah…" Kincaid bowed her head. "Elections coming up next year."

Now, she understood why Jack McCoy absolutely  _detested_  Election years.

_Politics takes precedence over everything. Even Justice…_

"Feldman's ambitious, wants to be District DA…" Schiff said. "And now you know what his strategy will be."

"Smearing you through my relationship with Jack…"

She heard Adam Schiff's sigh.

"I'll talk to him, see if I can make him see reason."

Claire Kincaid bowed her head, trembling with gratitude. If anyone could unravel this Gordian knot, it would be Adam Schiff.

_Jack always called him the wisest man east of the Missouri…_

...

Andy's was an upscale pub within walking distance of the Courthouse. As such, its clientele was almost entirely comprised of courthouse employees-Court Stenographers, Clerks, security-and others, such as the occasional Judge.

Adam Schiff knew he could count on Judge Gary Feldman to be there; even if only to cement his image as a  _man of the people…_

"Mr. Schiff!" Feldman seemed genuinely surprised to see Adam there. "Aren't you usually to be seen at Max's Bar & Grill?"

"I hear Andy's makes an excellent Reuben on Rye," Schiff looked down at the Judge. "May I join you?"

"Grab a seat," Feldman shrugged.

Small talk covered the wait until Adam Schiff's order arrived.

"I'm sure you didn't come all of the way here to inquire after Stella and the kids," Feldman sipped his plain seltzer.

"No," Schiff agreed. "I want to know why you voided the Dressler Plea Deal."

"It's my Courthouse, Adam. I have unchecked authority there."

" _Virtually_ unchecked," Schiff reminded him. "You're not allowed to put a man's life at risk on a whim."

"I'm surprised, Adam," Feldman put down his sandwich. "It's  _your_ Executive Assistant DA in a coma. I would think you would want blood over this."

"You're right," Schiff nodded. "I do want blood. But not at the expense of justice. Justice-and the Law-require the Defendant to permanently lose his license to drive, and pay restitution to the victim, which is exactly what the Plea Deal did. If you want to make new law, appeal to the Supreme Court."

"I could take you to Court over this…"Feldman challenged him.

"Go right ahead," Schiff stood. "If you want to make yourself look like an idiot. I've got more than enough ammunition."

…..

"I sentence you, Bernard Dressler, to five years at Fordham Psychiatric Hospital, to lose any driving privileges for the rest of your natural life, and to pay for any and all ongoing costs for Mr. Jack McCoy's medical care for the rest of  _his_ natural life…"

Judge Gary Feldman looked like a beaten dog as he gave the sentence, even though he  _had_ been able to add two additional years to Bernard Dressler's sentence, and had changed the venue of said treatment to Fordham, instead of Bellevue.

Dressler, under Billings' guidance, had accepted the terms.

Now, Dressler was at Fordham, beginning his Mandatory Alcoholism Therapy.

And Jack McCoy had been moved  _here_ , to the Manhattan Neurology Intensive Long Term Care Facility, privately owned by Dr. Arthur Branch.

_Doctor God himself…_

Now, instead of a little curtained-off space within a larger dormitory setting, Jack McCoy had a private room all to himself, with nurses and therapists on call twenty-four hours a day.

There was also a large window that let the sun shine in. Even on gray days, the light would be a welcome thing. In spring and summer, Jack would hear birdsong, and the voices of people all around, both inside and outside.

Other good news…

Jack was breathing on his own.

More or less…

_More or less_ meant that he had cannulas in his nose, instead of the mechanical ventilator.

His shattered knee had been replaced, and his skull had been repaired.

_An artificial knee, and metal plates in his skull._

Claire Kincaid sighed as she caressed her comatose lover's shoulder.

_Jamie's right. It is better than being dead…_


	5. Chapter 5

_Hudson Medical Terrace_

Dr. Arthur Branch often accompanied his patients whenever they had to be taken out for special examinations that couldn't be done at the Manhattan Neurology Intensive Long Term Care Facility.

Call it a proprietary interest.

Call it  _ownership_ …

Branch liked to be near his patients whenever they were outside his facility.

Today was no different. Right now, it was lunch time, and almost everyone at Hudson Terrace was eating, or being fed by nurse's aides, or family members. One patient in particular caught Branch's eye. A boy, being fed by his father. Michael Sutter was a quadriplegic, and the hopeless, agony-driven love Branch could see in the father, Joe Sutter, as he fed his son…

_You'd have to be heartless not to grieve at the sight…_

Jack McCoy had to be fed by feeding tube, the duty carried out by Arthur Branch personally.

Dr. Lyle Semenko had offered to take over for Branch. The neurologist had politely declined.

To put it plainly, even though he couldn't explain  _why_ , Branch didn't like Semenko.

The man was smarmy, and set his teeth on edge.

Lunch done, Branch sent his patient back to the Long Term Care Facility.

…..

_Manhattan Intensive Long Term Care Facility_

Claire Kincaid, sitting in Dr. Arthur Branch's office.

"Over the phone, you said there was good news," she said. "Is Jack waking up?"

"No," Branch spoke bluntly, as was his wont. "But we have seen indications of improved brain activity. There's a possibility Mr. McCoy might even be experiencing dream activity."

"He's… _dreaming?_ "

"Maybe…" Branch cautioned. "We can't be sure. But, even without that, Mr. McCoy is getting stronger. We are continuing the physical therapy."

"Yes…" Kincaid had seen the therapy they were doing, manipulating the patient's arms and legs, to protect the muscles from atrophy; placing McCoy in a wheel chair for much of the day.

_To prevent bedsores…_

It was pretty clear by now that Jack wasn't going to wake up. Adam Schiff had finally told Claire she could remove the word  _Acting_ from her job title.

She was now Adam Schiff's Executive Assistant DA in truth.

_Jack would be proud of you, Miss Kincaid,_  Schiff had said.  _You've come a long way…_

Kincaid supposed she had, at that.

_But I would give everything, all of my worldly goods, just to have Jack back, to have all of those arguments with him again…_

Jack McCoy had been more than just her boss, and more than just her lover. He'd been her mentor, her teacher, perhaps more than any other; even more than Ben Stone…

After the meeting with Dr. Branch, she stopped to see Jack. He had just been put back into bed for the day, lying on his side this time, body slightly curled.

His hair had grown back in the three years since the accident. Now, it was a tousled mop falling into his eyes.

Kincaid leaned over, smoothed the black hair back, fingers shying away slightly as they ran through McCoy's scalp.

That thick black hair hid a truly Frankenstein-worthy series of scars.

Jack McCoy would carry those surgical scars for the rest of his life; along with those metal plates that were now part of his skull.

_But, he's alive, and, as long as he lives, there's a chance he will open his eyes and wake up…_


	6. Chapter 6

"I can't believe we lost!" Claire Kincaid flopped gracelessly on the couch in Adam Schiff's office. Dr. Lyle Semenko had gotten away with murder, with killing the Sutter Boy, and so many others as well…

"You'll get used to it," Adam smiled mirthlessly as he poured two scotches.

"Jack said that to me once," Kincaid picked up her scotch. "The Dobson case…"

_It was just a few months after Jack had become Executive Assistant DA…_

Michael Dobson, accused of having his wife killed. He had skated away from that, free and clear.

_But, sometimes, things have a way of coming around…_

Dobson had married again, almost immediately after the trial, and  _she_  had died too; about a year, or so, later. This time, Kincaid was able to bring Dobson down.

_He's doing Life at Rikers…_

The very first thing Claire Kincaid had done after Dobson's Plea Deal, was to go down to see Jack, and tell him.

Dr. Branch had said comatose people heard everything around them, so Kincaid figured Jack would hear her telling him they had brought Michael Dobson down for good.

But not Dr. Lyle Semenko. A serial killer masquerading as an angel of mercy, and the jury had bought his act.

Dr. Arthur Branch had offered to testify at the trial.

_Before he was hired by Hudson Terrace, Dr. Semenko applied to work here, at my facility,_ Branch had said.  _But I refused to hire him. I know everyone says that the high percentage of deaths among his patients can be explained by the fact that most of his patients were high risk, or dying anyway. But he rubbed me the wrong way, and now I know why._

Kincaid had to refuse the offer.

Rumor…gossip…hearsay…

Semenko had gotten away, with the reputation of a hero. But no Manhattan hospital would hire him now. So he had flown off to sunny California.

_Far away from Manhattan. More importantly, far away from Jack…_

Branch had told her about the one time Lyle Semenko had offered to give Jack his feeding tube, give Branch a break. That revelation made Claire week in the knees.

_He could have poisoned Jack the way he did Michael Sutter…_

On the weekends, Saturday and Sunday, Claire Kincaid would visit Jack, like she always did. She would sit by his side, and go over legal briefs, tell him about her cases. She would help the aides sometimes, with the physical therapy. And she would tell him how much she loved him and missed him. How much she wanted him to just open his eyes and wake up…


	7. Chapter 7

_1 Hogan Place_

Claire Kincaid and Adam Schiff, in the early evening hours, just before quitting time, in Schiff's office, going over all their current cases.

This week was looking to be a light one; which wasn't always the case

"Which way is Robey going to leap?" Schiff asked Kincaid.

"Think he's going to plead to Murder 2," Kincaid looked up from her notes. "Sally knows we've got him dead to rights."

"And Verbanski?"

An embezzler who had been caught red-handed by her employer.  _He_  had been the one to pay; with his life…

"She pled out too. She's doing Life."

"Good." Adam Schiff smiled, peering over the rims of his Reading Glasses.

Claire Kincaid smiled back.

The last four years had been an emotional roller-coaster; what with Jack McCoy having been traumatically injured by a hit-and-run driver.

The injury had left him in a coma, and Claire, his Second Chair…his  _lover_ …had been vaulted into sudden prominence as Adam Schiff's new Executive Assistant DA.

"How is he?" Business done for the day, Adam Schiff put all the briefs to one side.

"He's still…wherever he is…"

Sometimes, Claire Kincaid wanted to howl.

Jack McCoy was still in that coma, still… _wherever he was…_

Still in the Manhattan Neurology Intensive Long-Term Care Facility, still under Dr. Arthur Branch's care.

"Looking in on him after work?"

"Yes," Claire nodded.

"Tell him Ruth and I will visit tomorrow,"

"I will."

…..

_Manhattan Neurology Intensive Long-term Care Facility_

Claire Kincaid watched the therapist as he worked on Jack McCoy, manipulating the patient's arms and legs.

Emil Skoda was  _very_  good at his job. He also preferred to talk to his patients, and their caretakers.

_Me…_

Kincaid remembered the first time she had met Skoda; around two years ago…

" _Mr. McCoy doesn't seem to mind me working on his arms," Skoda had said. "But he_ _ **hates**_ _it when I work on his legs. Especially his knees; which is why I always do those first. To get it over with ASAP."_

" _How can you tell he hates it?"_

_Jack always looked the same to her, no matter what the therapist was doing at the time, no matter what anyone was doing around him._

_**Jack's my Sleeping Beauty…** _

_**If only I could awaken him with a kiss…** _

" _Hold him," Skoda had suggested. "I'll do his legs, and you'll see…"_

_Kincaid gathered McCoy into her arms, held him close, his head resting on her shoulder. She sensed Skoda moving to the foot of the bed, heard the rustle as the bedding was pulled back._

" _I'm starting now," the therapist said, as he set to work. And Jack McCoy's body stiffened in her arms._

_Instinctively, Claire caressed McCoy's back, muttered wordless reassurances in his ear._

_It didn't take long; maybe ten to fifteen minutes. Then, Skoda pulled the bedding back down._

_And Jack McCoy seemed to relax in her arms._

" _He really doesn't like it," Kincaid continued to rub the comatose man's back._

Ever since then, both she and Skoda had contrived to schedule Jack's physical therapy sessions for when she could be there to hold him.

After the therapy, Clair would lay Jack down, and tell him the news of the day. Then, she would go to her small, and desolately empty apartment, and go to bed…


	8. Chapter 8

_Manhattan Intensive Neurology Long Term Care Facility_

Claire Kincaid had brought her files here, so she could work on them as she sat by Jack McCoy.

Emil Skoda had just finished Jack's final Physical Therapy Session for the day, and now Jack was tucked into bed for the rest of the night.

Early evening now, and someone down the hall had put on some music, something with a heavy beat.

Kincaid didn't really mind the music all that much, although she would have preferred something a little more adult in tone.

A nurse-Claire knew her as Kate-had just come in, and now she was quietly checking McCoy's vitals, his breathing, his blood pressure…

Claire Kincaid looked at the man who had been comatose for so long; at the hawk features, the eyes with shuttered lids.

Those black eyelashes trembled slightly, and the files Kincaid had been working on slid to the floor as she quickly stood.

"Kate!" she hissed.

"I see it," the Kate replied. She picked up a phone, spoke into it.

_Dr. Branch to Room 101…Dr. Branch to Room 101…_

Claire Kincaid had moved to the bed. Now she took Jack McCoy's hand in hers, stroking his hand, heart hammering in her ears as she began to pray.

McCoy's head turned uneasily on the pillows.

"Jack?" she whispered, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "I'm here."

And his eyes opened, looking directly at her.

She saw confusion in those dark eyes, confusion followed by recognition, followed by… _joy?_

"Claire…" his voice was slightly slurred, dusty-sounding. "You're…alive."

All Claire Kincaid could do was to look down at him, tears blurring her sight.

_**You're** _ _alive, Jack._ _**You** _ _…_

…..

_One week later_

Jack McCoy had reconciled himself to no longer being the Executive Assistant DA.

_In a coma for four years…_

He was damn lucky to be alive at all.

_I can talk, I can think, and I have all my memories…_

But he hadn't escaped from a traumatic brain injury unscathed.

In terms of physical ability, McCoy was as helpless as an infant. Walking…using his hands…Jack McCoy would have to relearn how to do everything that must adults took for granted.

_At least you're alive,_  his therapist, Emil Skoda had said.  _And you_ _ **will**_ _relearn everything. Just be patient._

Patient.

That had never exactly been a strong suit of his.

_I'll have to learn that too, I guess…_

I light knock on the door to his private room, and Adam Schiff walked in, smiling ear-to-ear.

"Adam!"

"My boy…" Adam took a seat by the bed. "I never thought I would actually see this day. How are you?"

"A little sore…" McCoy admitted. "Skoda is riding me pretty hard…"

The first thing Skoda had done, just to determine how bad it would be, was give McCoy the same standardized test police gave drivers under suspicion of driving under the influence; the old  _hold your right arm straight out to the right, then try to touch your nose with your right index finger…_

There had been other tests as well.

"I can't even feed myself," McCoy grumbled.

"It will all come, Jack," Schiff spoke soothingly. "It just will take some time."

"Yeah…I know. It's just…"

"It's just you not being patient, Jack."

_Yeah…_

McCoy sighed.

"I'm not used to this," he finally admitted.

"I know," Adam patted him on the shoulder. "But we're all going to help you through this."

"Yes…"

"Claire will be by later to see you, Jack. Right now, she's up to her eyeballs in this little murder case. The perp fled to LA."

"Tell her to go get him!"

"I will. Now you rest up, so you'll be ready for more torture from your therapist. Ruth and I will drop in to see you again before the weekend."

After Adam left, Jack McCoy lay his head back, and looked up at the ceiling.

Adam Schiff hadn't been the only visitor during the week.

Lennie Briscoe had poked his head in, with his trade-marked wide grin.

"You're back, Jack!"

Claire had told him about how Lennie had been right there when the accident happened, how deeply upset the detective had been.

Claire…

That was the thing that mattered most to Jack McCoy.

All though the coma, he had dreamed that  _she_  had been the one, that Claire had died, killed by a drunk driver.

_Not her, though. Me…_

But Jack McCoy had survived it, and Claire Kincaid was fine.

Claire was alive.

Claire was now Adam Schiff's Executive Assistant.

_And she still loves me…_


End file.
